


while stars cross the sky in their prescribed courses

by sajee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Pining, more baking that should probably be expected, not even really that angsty, sometimes they play hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajee/pseuds/sajee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mo asks about balancing his course work with hockey, about making it to Frozen Four and losing, about being captain and the strangest class he took at college. </p><p>Jack talks about Women, Food & American Culture and baking a pie for his final and having to learn how to make a lattice top for his pie with disastrous results. </p><p>And that’s what starts it all, really. The hashtag, the influx of pies on game days and the whole thing with Bittle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	while stars cross the sky in their prescribed courses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witchm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchm/gifts).



> Happy 'sawesome santa, witchm! I hope that this in some way still resembles your prompt "Holidays can be exhausting- Jack and Bitty help each other get through them." It kind of got away from me.

By Day Four of camp, Jack feels more exhausted than he has ever felt before - a measure that he was certain he’d never meet again - and feels like he’s swinging widely from elation about not being sent down to rising panic about expectations and reality.

He’d been on the winning team in scrimmage, a goal and an assist and things had gone well with the lines he’d played on. Jack doesn’t know these guys yet and the ones who know that they’re heading back to Providence at the end of camp seem to be reluctant to invest too much time in the huge number of prospects and PTOs that are here. Jack knows that he’s good enough to keep up with the team and he knows that they want him in Providence but knowing it is different to going out against guys who’ve been doing this for years and hoping that things go your way.

Jack’s fresh off the ice, tired and sweaty and he expects to do some press today because the prodigal son storyline just won’t die. He’s a different player than his father, has a different temperament and style of play but Jack can understand that’s he’s still a novelty and something to write about in preseason.

Falcs TV have also been hovering around all of them all camp and Jack doesn’t feel that surprised when a producer bustles up to him on his way to shower and change and advises him that he’ll be participating in “a casual chat like we do with all the guys at camp. You know, favourite player, pre-game meal, the usual.” Once he’s presentable, they sit him down in a meeting room, under the glare of lights and Jack knows how to do this. He’s been doing it for the majority of his life and, as the producer reads off her list of questions, Jack spends more time thinking about tomorrow’s schedule than his answers.

“Last couple and then you can go,” Mo says as he has a drink of water. “We’re going to ask about college because that’s a nice point of differentiation for you in the market.”

Jack never really thought of college as a way to stand out from the crowd and more as a way to keep playing hockey but he’ll take it.

“Sure.”

Mo asks about balancing his course work with hockey, about making it to Frozen Four and losing, about being captain and the strangest class he took at college.

Jack talks about Women, Food & American Culture and baking a pie for his final and having to learn how to make a lattice top for his pie with disastrous results.

And that’s what starts it all, really. The hashtag, the influx of pies on game days and the whole thing with Bittle.

 

* * *

 

November comes and it turns out the townhouse that he and his mother picked in Providence wasn’t a waste because he’s played 13 NHL games, has 6 goals and 9 assists and . . . he made it to the show and he’s ok.

 

* * *

 

Jack likes the guys on the team - it’s not the same as his Samwell boys but he’s getting there. They’re good guys and no one seems to take it personally that Jack doesn’t go out that much after games.

 

* * *

 

Jack’s only just walked into the locker room before training when Boyle starts.

  
“Zimms, what’s with all the pies? I mean, I don’t recall getting pies delivered to me in my rookie year but maybe I just wasn’t enough of a looker.” Boyle is lounging next to Jack’s stall with a pie in his hands while the rest of the team seem to be either trying to ignore him or laughing.

  
“Sounds about right, Boyle, you ugly son of a bitch. No one would want to send you anything!” Vanner calls from the other side of the room.

  
Boyle manages to neatly drop the pie and sprint over to Van to start pushing him around and Jack is vaguely in awe at how a 6”2 D-man can be so agile in only one skate.

  
There’s nothing on the pies to indicate where they’ve come from and Jack knows that the crimping isn’t perfect enough for them to be from Bittle. The fact that he can identify Bittle’s baking quirks makes Jack’s heart beat a little faster. It feels important.

The pie mystery isn’t solved until after practice when he finds Mo waiting for him with Kris, one of the guys who runs the social media accounts for the team.

“Jack! Who knew, right?

Jack gives a non-committal shrug because he really has no idea what this is all about. “What’s going on?”

Mo grins at him. “Pie!”

 

* * *

 

The ‘Meet the Rookie” segment on the most recent Falcs TV episode was about Jack. It is horrifying. Jack is certain of it as he watches it again that night with Shitty on Skype.

“Look at that! You’re part intense hockey droid and part newborn deer who is worried about getting eaten by wolves or foxes or a bear or some shit.”

Jack tries his hardest not to glare at Shitty.

“That is literally just my face.” Jack watches himself talk about eggs and chicken (“Just any protein, really. I mean, all protein is good fuel.”) and, yeah, it is just his face.

“Nah, bro. I mean, to some people, it might by your normal face but I know you, Jacques. That’s your ‘thinking about food but trying not to offend anyone because what if they don’t like me’ face. It’s quite specific.” Shitty grins up at him from the screen. “And, not to be a killjoy because I could literally watch you be awkward all day, but this is all normal shit. ‘I play hockey blergh blergh blergh everyone tried their hardest out there I like pasta and steak E. T. fucking C.”

Jack sighs. “Wait for it.”

The rest of his answers are intercut with shots of him playing at camp and preseason and, a couple of times. playing at Samwell. Shitty doesn’t say much, except to offer to blow Jack for a particularly flithy wraparound in preseason which Jack is still pretty proud of. Finally, the section about college classes comes up and, while he isn't really paying attention to the words he’s saying, he studies his own face while he talks about baking those stupid pies. For the first time in the whole interview, he looks like he actually has an opinion, he’s not as closed off as he was before. Bittle and his fucking pies.

The segment ends and Shitty chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, Jack, I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s nothing different from what we’ve talked about before.”

“Fucking Bittle.”

“Almost, man. Aaaaalmost.”

 

* * *

 

PR decide to go all in and push Jack as a handsome young bachelor who likes to bake for all they’re worth. Pies continue to be delivered to the arena. Kris clearly thinks he’s hilarious when he starts using the #rideorpiezimms tag on every single mention of Jack on social media and photoshopping chef’s whites onto Jack’s publicity photos.

“I genuinely thought you were meant to be helping me out. Isn’t that your job?” 

  
“Oh, Zimms. You poor deluded soul. Your discomfort and frustration mean nothing to me if people are engaging with the Falconers brand on social media. You are simply a pawn in my longterm plans.” Kris does a fairly convincing evil cackle as he snaps a photo of Jack confronting him.

“Can you just stop with encouraging all the baked goods, please?!” Jack feels guilty about all the food that keeps being left for him.

Kris laughs in his face before walking away.

Jack makes it as far as the break lounge when his phone vibrates with a notification: his disgruntled face and a tweet from the Falconers official account: “someone’s blood sugar is low. he needs more pie. #rideorpiezimms @jlzimmerman42”

 

* * *

 

The season grinds on and surplus pies and pie-themed signs and pie-related fan encounters become part of Jack’s day to day life. He keeps his engagement with the whole thing to a minimum and, anyway, there’s a lot of hockey to be played that keeps his mind off it.

Jack spends more time alone than he has in a long time - in Rimouski, everyone was in each other’s pockets, no one more so than him and Parse and he was never left properly alone in rehab and then Samwell. He’s never had so much time to just be alone. He and Shitty Skype and text pretty constantly and he has a regular Wednesday morning chat with Lardo and, well, he and Bittle text a lot. They have ever since his visit to Madison. Jack has kept that trip to Madison to himself, soft and special and, even when Shitty asks him for deets about Bitty’s home and family and what Jack did while he was there, Jack finds that he doesn’t want to talk about it aloud in case talking about it changes what it was.

The thing is that skyping and texting isn’t the same and he can feel himself becoming more insular but he doesn’t know how to stop himself from being that guy. He’s always had people to pull him out of it before, Parse and Shitty and Lardo. He spends the time he’s not training or playing or doing PR in his townhouse feeling like he’s waiting for something. He’s just not sure what.

Jack’s in this weird spot being the 25 year old rookie - he finds himself deferring to younger guys who’ve been in the league for years and they, in turn, seem almost shy around him. Jack is certain it has more to do with his name than it does with his age.

 

* * *

 

“C’mon, Zimms. We are getting smoothies.” Evans slaps him on the back before dragging him into a standard bro-hug. “That was so fucking clutch that I just need to bask in your general awesome whilst knocking back some blended kale or some shit.”

“Really, Evs? ‘Whilst’? That’s some fancy shit right there.”

“Shut the fuck up, Zimmerman or no kale for you.”

 

* * *

 

It becomes tradition for he and Tyson to get smoothies and Jack can feel this fragile friendship building. Evs was drafted by the Falcs in Jack’s draft year that never was, 7th round and expected to never make it out of Baltimore. He only ended up spending half a season with the Comets before heading up to the Falcs. Jack thinks they’re very similar and that without the pressure of being Bad Bob’s son - he loves his father but it’s a lot - he’d be a lot like Tyson Evans.

So, smoothies after training and games becomes a thing and Jack seems to spend a lot of his time defending the validity of coconut water as a smoothie base.

 

(“You’re fucking wrong, man. Dairy needs to be involved. It’s the whole fucking point of a smoothie.”

“What about vegans, eh?”

“Well, Zimmermann, if you are so fucking concerned about the vegans of the world, they are allowed to use a dairy substitute. Almond milk, preferably.”

“I’ll alert the press.”

“Don’t chirp me, motherfucker. You’re the one obsessed with fucking coconut water.”)

 

* * *

 

By mid-November, Jack realises that he’s fallen into another friendship and that Evans has been doing most of the heavy lifting because Jack pretty much didn’t realise that Evs has smoothed the way with the other guys who think Jack’s standoffish and weird. Jack wants to do something nice for Evans and, really, the most consistent, recent version of ‘something nice’ he has is to bake something, even though the thought of baking somewhere without Bittle, in a kitchen that isn’t the Haus, makes him queasy. He googles ‘good cookie recipe’ and becomes completely overwhelmed by choice. He calls Shitty for advice which ends up with him being laughed at down the phone. Finally, he makes the call.

“Jack?!”

“Bittle.”

Jack can feel the silence stretching out, longer and longer and he feels embarrassed about having not called since the season started and embarrassed about what’s caused him to call in the first place. Listening to Bittle’s quiet huffs of breath down the phone remind him of Madison and sleeping in the same room as him and convincing himself that this wasn’t something he was allowed to have.

“Honey, you called me,” Bitty laughs in exasperation. Jack doesn’t let himself feel anything in response to the pet name or the note of hope in Bittle’s voice. It wouldn’t be fair on either of them so it just can’t happen.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m just going to talk until you interrupt me because we haven’t spoken for so long. Anyway, I thought sweet baby Chowder was going to explode when you skated out at SAP Centre. I swear, I’ve never seen so many emotions happening on the one goalie.”

Jack laughs. “Even compared to the Buttslap 2015 Incident?”

Bitty chuckles as he responds. “That comes close. Remember his face when he realised that it was your butt and not Shitty’s?” Bitty’s voice trails off with a note of sadness. “We all miss you. Both of you. It isn’t the same.”

And Jack feels like an asshole because he’s happy that he hasn’t been replaced and, really, he’s revelling in his friends being sad and that’s just the worst.

Bitty sighs. “You’re playing so well, Jack. I’m just so proud of you . . . which seems like a weird thing to have said aloud because I can’t imagine that you are sitting around waiting to . . . God, I’m just going to stop.” Jack can imagine the shade of red that would be high in Bittle’s cheeks and tries to stop himself of thinking of other situations that might cause the same reaction.

They talk for another ten minutes until Jack blurts out the reason for the call. “I need a recipe.”

“Oh, Jack.” Bittle’s laugh is kind and sweet. “You’re going to need to narrow that down.”

They work together to find a suitable recipe that is skill-level appropriate, somewhat healthy and relatively quick. Bitty ends the call demanding photos of not just the finished product but the process as well.

Jack knows that it doesn’t make sense but he feels warmer and lighter than he has for days and he swears that he’ll start calling Bittle again more regularly. He goes online and orders cookie sheets and mixing bowls to be overnighted and organises a grocery delivery of ingredients for tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

The next day after training, he gets home to all his stuff, as well as some stuff that Bittle has overnighted - cooling racks, oven mitts and something called a silpat which sends Jack online to check what it actually is. Bitty’s generosity and kindness makes that feeling that Jack’s been trying to ignore for the past six months even stronger. He’s not ashamed of being queer and, surprisingly, he’s not really that worried about being outed. It’s just that Bittle is so lovely and Jack just feels like shit in comparison.

He’s sore and tired from training but he’s always been good with goal setting and he wants to get this done before they leave for their five game roadie the next day. The recipe is easy to follow and the only bit that’s dicey is toasting the almonds and, even then, only because he gets distracted trying to frame a picture of his progress for Bittle.

When the cookies come out of the oven, he’s pretty proud at how good they look and he sneaks one - he doesn’t want to send a teammate down with food poisoning after all - and he decides that he needs to take them over to Tyson now instead of on the plane tomorrow. Jack has a brief moment of panic about not having a nice container to put them in but a plate and some saran wrap seem to do the trick. He puts on his coat and heads over to Tyson’s place. He’s halfway there when he remembers to text and check that he can come over. Jack sits in his car on the side of the road and feels the worry rising as he waits for a response. He’s starting to think that he’s read the whole situation with Evs wrong and that maybe Evs had been tapped by management to keep an eye on Jack. He’s about to turn around and head for home when his phone dings at him.

  
**you better be on your way fucker. why are you even asking**

 

* * *

 

Jack waits nervously on the doorstep and more or less shoves the plate at Evs when he opens the door and coughs awkwardly. Molly shoves Tyson out of the way, grabs Jack’s hand and drags him into the kitchen. She’s grinning at him and tries to ruffle his hair but is foiled by the significant height difference between them.

“You are just so sweet. You brought something over for your playdate.” She keeps looking back and forth between Jack and Tyson and it is clear that she is genuinely happy that Jack is there.

“Firstly, fuck you. It’s not a playdate if you don’t arrange it beforehand and secondly, very serious professional athletes don’t have ‘playdates’, Molly. They have bonding time.” Tyson’s defence of their friendship is somewhat hampered by the fact that he has a mouth full of cookie and crumbs in his beard.

“I just wanted to do something to say thank you for helping me out.” Jack is generally fairly awkward but this has to be up there for ‘most awkward moment’ in his life. He doesn’t meet Tyson or Molly’s eyes and stares instead at the ceramic rooster they have next to their stove.

“Zimms, I didn’t do anything. Well, I probably had more kale than I expected at the start of the season but you’re a good guy and I remember what it’s like when you’re a rook. Our job doesn’t take place in the real world and most of us haven’t had to negotiate adult relationships ever. And chocolate chip are my favourite.”

Jack rolls his eyes because chocolate chip are everyone’s favourite and they sit up at the bench and eat cookies and Jack preens just a little when Tyson insists on taking a photo of the three of them, cookie hanging out of his mouth and Jack displaying the plate with the rest of the baking on it. Evs tags it #squadgoals and posts it to Instagram and, moments later, Vanner is commenting about ‘liney betrayal because i never get treats’ and then the Falcs Instagram reposts with the stupid hashtag.

Jack is happy that Evs and Molly liked the cookies but, at the end of the day, it is the catalyst for him finding himself booked into to film a holiday baking segment for the last Falcs Insider for the year.

 

* * *

 

They get back to Providence after a three game road trip at 1 in the morning and all Jack wants to do it sleep. They have an off day tomorrow - well, today, really - and the next day is light practice before their four game homestand before their allotted two days off before Christmas begins. Jack laughs when he thinks back to how tired he thought he was during training camp because now he knows what it feels like to be completely wrung out and still be aware that the season isn’t even halfway done.

To top off the bone deep exhaustion, the PR stunt baking is scheduled for the day after his mom and dad are arriving to spend the holiday season with him. He feels stressed about showing them clearly that he’s coping. He knows they’re proud - their constant tweeting tell him that alone - and he knows that they’ve forgiven him but everyone in his life are pretty on edge about how he’s coping, how he’s going to cope as the season continues, how he’s going to deal with professional sport and its preference to play through or medicate, rather than be open about anything issues that might arise.

He needs to sleep but he feels his heartbeat speed up and notices the frantic rhythm his fingers are beating against his thigh and he texts Shitty.

**Are you awake?**

Shitty calls him instantly and Jack is horrified to hear the note of worry in his voice. “What’s up, Jack?”

“Just needed to check up on your moustache,” Jack murmurs. He doesn’t need to tell Shitty that he’s on the verge of a panic attack because they know each other’s quirks by now. Shitty talks to him about everything from the cost of text books - “which are printed by some fucking cartel anyway, brah. I mean, one hundred and fifty fucking dollars for a book that is pre-owned. Jesus fucking christ.” - to the deliciousness of the sandwiches at the deli around the corner from his apartment. Jack feels himself relax as Shitty nominates and ranks the best egg salad in the three miles around his home and Jack feels like he can finally start talking.

“So, not that I don’t love your dulcet Canadian tones but d’you need something else?”

Jack clears his throat and begins to unpack all the things that are causing him anxiety and panic - his parents’ visit, the upcoming homestead because they haven’t won at home in their last three games, the twinge he’s feeling in his left shoulder, the fucking baking thing that is scheduled for this week.

“I know that it’s just PR and it doesn’t matter if it is good or not and I do want fans to feel like they are connected to the team but . . . I mean, I just know that the PR guy, Kris, that he’s going to make it into a bigger thing than it is. I don’t even know what I’m going to bake. They need a list of equipment and ingredients by 3 this afternoon and I have literally no idea what I’m doing.”

Shitty laughs at him. “You know that this particular problem is an issue that only you could create for yourself. You know what would be great? If you had, say, an acquaintance, or even a close personal friend, who is an accomplished baker and finished finals yesterday and is not going back to, let’s just imagine, Georgia, because he convinced his family that he needs to stay close to his college to train and prepare for the post-holiday push of the season but who, given the chance, would be happy to visit an old friend in a nearby location to help him prepare for an event that is causing said friend to worry and has the potential for him to make a fool of himself. Also, say said friend was a professional athlete and would need to be training as well, it wouldn’t even be as if the first friend was lying to his family.”

“Huh.”

“Zimmermann, you oblivious fucker. You’re allowed to want good things for yourself.”

Jack thanks Shitty and apologises for keeping him up to 2:30am and promises to call him again during the week. He hesitates and then decides that he can afford to lose the money if Bittle chooses not to come, books the ticket and write Bittle an email with the ticket attached.

 

* * *

 

“What’s the rush, Zimms? We were going to go and get lunch.” Evs throws a glove to get Jack’s attention. “Me and Vanner and probably Boyle, Wills. I’m pretty sure that sushi happening. I know you love your hamachi.” Evs appears to be trying to waggle his eyebrows at Jack.

“What is your face even doing? I can’t anyway. I’ve gotta go and prep for the . . .” Jack looks around at the team and decides that he definitely doesn’t want them all to know what he has to do before the fact, “the thing. That I’m doing on Tuesday. That requires preparation.”

Tyson and Vanner look at Jack, brows furrowed in concern.

“You’re a lot weirder than I expected, Zimmermann,” Vanner remarks as they leave the locker room.

 

* * *

 

On the drive home, Jack tries to fool himself into thinking that he isn’t getting excited. This is just a friend coming to help him out. That’s if he even decided to come; Jack wouldn’t blame Bittle for refusing to get on a train just because someone emails you a ticket. That’s how you end up on some sort of true crime documentary series.

Similarly, Jack tries to fool himself into thinking he isn’t disappointed when there is no sign of Bittle at his townhouse, no blond hair catching the weak December sunlight. Jack parks in his spot, grabs his gear and heads inside.

After making an uninspired lunch of chicken and pasta, Jack checks both guest rooms are ready. His housekeeping service has put fresh flowers in the one for his parents and there are fresh linens on the bed and towels in the bathroom. It hits Jack that this is the first time his parents are staying with him as an adult with a job, that they are on as equal a footing as Jack is ever likely to get. He feels torn between poking at this delicate part of himself - what he did to them, what he owes them - and shutting it out in order to be functional.

After plumping up the pillows again, Jack accepts that his is just avoiding the inevitable. He sinks into the couch with his tablet and starts looking at appropriate recipes for holiday baking. He has an hour and a half before PR want a list from him. Jack eyes the clock at the top of the screen nervously.

 

* * *

 

Forty-three minutes later, Jack has a shortlist of three different kinds of gingerbread, a walnut shortbread that he’s pretty keen on and, in a moment of delusion, a Bûche de Noël. Jack’s eyeing off meringue mushrooms and shaking his head at himself when the doorbell rings.

Jack’s heartbeat speeds up as he walks towards the door because this has to be Bittle and he can feel something like hope stirring inside him.

Bittle’s cheeks are rosy and he has a frankly ridiculous woollen hat on and the biggest scarf Jack’s ever seen wrapped around his neck. He’s slightly out of breath but he’s grinning up at Jack and Jack can feel himself grin in response.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not saying that you couldn’t successfully pull off the Bûche but it seems like you’d be putting a lot of extra pressure on yourself for something that people probably aren’t even going to eat.” Bittle has taken control of the shortlist before he has even finished unspooling the scarf from around his neck. “The shortbread is a good option but it won’t look that great on camera. Gingerbread, well, it’s traditional but I can’t imagine you’ve spent a lot of time with royal icing, Jack.”

Bittle curls his feet under himself in the corner of the couch and looks up at the ceiling. Jack knows that he’s standing awkwardly next to his own couch but he’s still in shock that Bittle came to help him, that Bitty is sitting on his couch. He goes into the kitchen and grabs them both some water.

Bitty’s voice follows him into the kitchen. “You could do a gingerbread variation, like a chocolate gingerbread cookie or a gingerbread cheesecake? No, not a cheesecake, that’s too time consuming to practice. Oh, my stars.”

Jack turns to find Bitty looking at his kitchen with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.

“It’s just so beautiful. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about all your bench space, Jack!”

Jack laughs. “Yeah, that’s the way to win people over. Bench space.”

“Don’t you chirp me, Mr Zimmermann. I know what I’m about.” Bitty runs a hand over the bench top and softly murmurs to it about being neglected. Jack knows that he can’t stop smiling but, honestly, what other reaction is there?

 

* * *

 

Jack emails Mo’s assistant a list of ingredients and equipment at 3:07pm and he and Bitty head out to the grocery store so that Jack can undertake a practice run.

Four hours and some slightly burnt fingers later, Jack has successfully baked a batch of the shortbread and a soft, cake-like gingerbread with a lemony icing which Jack wants to hide and eat all of himself. Because he’s an overachiever, Bitty is putting the finishing touches on a batch of snowflake shaped cookies because, of course, Eric Bittle travels with a snowflake-shaped cookie cutter.

Bitty looks up from his piping bag and smiles softly at Jack.

“See? What were you worried about?”

Jack’s mouth goes dry.

 

* * *

 

His parents arrive in the morning and, if they are surprised to find Bitty sitting at Jack’s kitchen table, half asleep and slightly rumpled while inhaling coffee, they hide it well.

His mother embraces Bitty and kisses his cheek. “Eric! It’s so nice to see you again. Particularly outside of a rink.”

Bitty laughs and exclaims on Alicia’s new haircut and asks about the flight, all the incidental conversational pieces that Jack finds so difficult. He picks up his mom’s bag and turns to take it the guest room and finds his father looking at him with a strange expression on his face. He follows Jack with the other bags and when they get to the guest room, Jack has prepared himself for the gentle voice and concerned eyes.

“Jack?”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Do you need to tell me something before we head back out there?”

Jack avoids his father’s gaze and he can feel his hands twitching to give his anxiety level away.

“We wouldn’t be unhappy about it, Jack.” Bob sighs. “My only concern is for you and your health. Coming out in your rookie year . . . “

Jack tries to raise his voice as quietly as possible so he won’t be heard from the kitchen. “I’m not coming out because I have no reason to. We aren’t together. He’s here to help me with something. As a friend. There’s nothing to tell.”

Bob sighs again.

“If you’re sure, Jack.”

 

* * *

 

When Jack and Bitty get back from spending time in the gym, they find a note on the kitchen table explaining that his parents have gone to visit with some friends and to not wait up. His mother has added a postscript in French about taking chances and giving he and Eric some space and Jack almost trips over a chair in his effort to screw up the note and put it in the bin before Bitty can see it. Jack doubts if Bitty would be able to read Alicia’s handwriting and understand the implication inherent in the phrasing but he doesn’t really want to find out.

 

* * *

 

They eat dinner and have a glass of wine each before moving to the couch. Bitty flicks through the channels until he finds a cooking show which he claims will help Jack prepare for Tuesday. Jack watches as the woman on screen clearly explains each step and seems calm and relaxed. Jack knows that he won’t be calm or relaxed and, what causes him more frustration, is that he knows he becomes more robotic when he’s nervous.

They sit and watch for a while, with Bitty interjecting with his own tips or indignation at processes he doesn’t agree with and Jack realises with a start that he’s been staring at Bitty instead of the TV for the last little while. The color in Bitty’s cheeks imply that he’s realised as well. Finally, he turns to face Jack.

“Why won’t you just let us just try?” Bitty’s expression is sad and resigned. He knows that Jack isn’t going to change his mind.

Jack stands up and excuses himself before walking purposely to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck have you done?”

Jack had answered his phone still half asleep, without checking to see who it is. “Shitty?”

“Of course it’s me!” Shitty hisses down the line. “Lardo just called, yelled at me about you and then hung up on me. What the actual fuck, bro?”

Jack runs a hand through his hair. “Bitty’s here to help with the thing and, you know, the other thing is always there and I want to but I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair on him and . . . “

“You mean, Bitty was there,” Shitty interrupts. “He’s gone back to Samwell and now I have the wrath of Duan upon me. Jack. Jacky. Zimmy. Man the fuck up. Bits wants to make with the kissing and I know you want to and you can’t make these decisions for him. That’s not fair either.”

The thing is Jack desperately wants to do what Shitty is encouraging him to do, to drive through the night to Samwell and make a public declaration and get the boy. But he’s too well trained for that. He has practice tomorrow morning and then some gym time before the filming of the stupid baking thing and he knows what happens to players who don’t keep their commitments. That’s the risk he’s not going to take. He’s not going to be healthy scratch for missing a meeting or practice and look like the flaky addict that everyone thinks he is.

“Shits, I just can’t. I’m sorry that he’s upset and I’ll try and get Lardo off your back but I’ve made up my mind.”

Jack tries to pretend he’s not surprised when Shitty hangs up on him.

 

* * *

 

After all the panic, the baking goes fine. He takes in the practice batches from home to act as the after shots and he remembers half of the terms for the stuff he’s doing and Mo and Kris seem very happy with his on-camera performance. Jack tries not to think about the way Bitty sat on the bench next to him as Jack grated ginger, how Jack tangled their ankles together as they sat at the table and waited for the timers to beep. Mo tells him that he looks happy, as he scrapes the gingerbread mixture into the pan. It is the only time Jack’s facade falters.

 

* * *

 

His mother corners him as Jack comes through the door.

“When did Eric leave, sweetheart?”

Jack shrugs and his mother hugs him as she whispers platitudes into Jack’s chest.

 

* * *

 

Evs messages him in the afternoon about coming over to hangout before their homestead starts the next night.

**ill be honest with you, zimms. i want to ingratiate myself with your mother so i can get more terrible baby photos of you. molly wants to come so she can stroke your fathers hair which i’ve explained is creepier but that’s my girl.**

Jack knows himself well enough to know that he needs people around him who aren’t just his parents. As much as it pains him to leave the poor punctuation and lack of capitals, he copies and pastes Evs’ own message back to him.

**you better be on your way fucker. why are you even asking**

 

* * *

 

He and Molly end up in the kitchen while Tyson chats with Bob and Alicia and Molly looks confused at all the baking equipment that is still out on the bench.

Jack starts to pack it away as he mutters “I had a PR thing. I baked some stuff for Insider.”

Molly doesn’t say anything and Jack looks up to find her studying him intently.

“How badly did you fuck up with this person who you are interested in?” She shushes him as he tries to interject that he really did bake for the TV people. “I know all about that, Ty snuck in and took pictures of you while they were filming. I’m talking about the sad eyes and the concerned looks from your mother and fact you keep checking your phone.”

Jack finds that he can’t help himself - the stress of the last couple of weeks, the buzz of having Bitty in his space, sitting next to him on the couch, only to fuck it all up and have the knowledge that three of his best friends in the world are pissed at him, as well as the majority of the Samwell Mens’ Hockey Team - Jack tells Molly everything.

At the end of his confession, Molly smiles. “Et maintenant, nous cuisons pour l'amour, non?”

“I don’t speak French, I'm Québécois.”

“Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

Jack wakes up to someone banging against the door and holding down the buzzer at the same time. He stumbles to the door and opens it to find Bitty standing there with a container in his hands and a cranky look on his face.

“I cannot believe you, Jack Zimmermann. You run away from me and don’t call when I leave and then you stand there in your stupid matching pyjamas like an old man and you sent me a pie!”

“It’s a tarte au sucre.”

“Shut up. I’m mad at you. You can’t just, I mean, it’s really good and I’m sad and mad and you are driving me to distraction.” Bitty glares at him, his brow furrowed under the same ridiculous hat as last time. “I had to borrow Wicks’ car to get here. Have you seen the inside of that car? I hope for your general health and wellbeing that you haven’t. I don’t think that boy has thrown anything out during his entire time in college. Papers rustled around which make me strongly believe that some sort of rodent is living in that car, Zimmermann. That is the car that I chose to borrow to come here and return your stupid perfect pie.”

Jack knows that it is probably the wrong reaction to have started grinning halfway through Bitty’s tirade but he can’t help himself.

“So, you’ve driven here to return a pie that you’ve started to eat? I don’t think I can accept the returned goods, Bittle.”

Bitty groans and shoves the tart at him. “I cannot with you right now.” He pushes past Jack and starts uncoiling his scarf on his way to the kitchen. “You better have enough fucking butter to show me how you made that . . . that thing.”

Jack grins at Bitty’s back and begins to follow him into the kitchen. He sees his mother and father peering out the guest room door. “Go back to bed. It’s just Eric.” He sees his mother’s eyebrows shoot up and she walks over to him while Bob disappears back into the room. “He has some concerns about the tarte au sucre.”

His mother smiles at him and pats him on the shoulder. “Now, don’t fuck it up this time, baby.”

 

* * *

 

Christmas Day is a normal off day. They have a game against the Wild on Boxing Day so Jack follows his routine as much as possible. He gets up, runs, makes some eggs and does some weights in his home gym. At noon, he makes a beef noodle salad for them all to share.

He sits at his kitchen table with his parents and his . . . , well, with Bitty and they chat and eat and exchange gifts.

Bitty calls home and comes back twenty minutes later with slightly red-rimmed eyes and a wavering smile that shows Jack that he isn’t quite happy but they are going to be ok.

His father is making them all coffee and his mother grabs some plates and forks.

Jack collects one of the midnight tarte au sucre off the bench and cuts them all a slice.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Darren Hanlon's "Happiness is a Chemical"


End file.
